Fragments of Life
by Albino Magpie
Summary: Collection of oneshots and drabbles, various pairings. Human names used.
1. Fireworks

**A/N: **I associate China with fireworks, and fireworks with noise. Russia likes noise (and China), so there you go.

They were standing outside, rows of empty bottles lined up in the snow, their pockets full of firecrackers. There was no wind, everything deathly quiet and dark. But they'd change that. No more quiet, no more darkness. Yao took a deep breath, pulling out a match and focusing a few more moments. There would be no need for such reverence, were this a normal firework. But it wasn't. This was a ritual, an exorcism. The silence needed to be driven away, the darkness, the cold and damp snow that swallowed every sound. He closed his eyes for a split-second, and in that second, a warm presence appeared at his back, two arms wrapped around his middle, a chin resting on top of his head. He struck the match, lit the fuse, tossed the firecracker some feet away. The fuse burned, the snow hadn't managed to put it out. A few, breathless seconds, and then..._bang!_

It exploded with a sound that seemed as loud as a thunderclap in the cold silence, a flash of light that stung in the eyes. Ivan laughed, the sound a juxtaposition of old and young.

_An innocent murderer, _Yao thought, _a thousand-year-old child._

"Oh, yes. I think I like this. I like this very much."

Yao lit another one, then another, then a handful at once. The snow flew up in little clouds from the explosions, mingled with smoke. Blasts of sound broke the silence, their ears rung.

"I want to try it, too." Ivan plucked a firecracker from his fingers, a big one, and lit it. He threw it hard, so hard it was buried in the snow when it landed. Yao thought he could hear a hissing sound, the snow extinguishing the little flame. He turned around in the embrace. Ivan looked crestfallen. The snow seemed to envelop him, his face bled white with two feverish lavender eyes.

The crack behind him startled Yao so much, he nearly jumped out of his skin. He smelled sulfur.

A smile grew on Ivan's face, sincere and without the hidden malice that shone in his eyes at the times he smiled because he'd just had an idea. It was a smile of total satisfaction, something Yao had seen only a few times, and never when they were standing fully-clothed outside the castle, knee-deep in snow. "Now for some skyrockets, hmm?"

Ivan nodded, eyes shining, and they walked to the row of rockets together, each lighting one.

Side-by-side they stood while the rockets exploded high above them, painting the sky green and gold, ash raining down. The rows quickly diminished, as more and more colors painted the sky's black canvas and ash and bits of red paper littered the snow. They lit paper pyramids that spewed out fountains of red sparks, Catherine wheels that spun and hummed and flashed, an array of firecrackers to drive all of the silence out. By the time they were finished, their ears ached and their hands had been burned more than once.

The cold and quiet that had been draped over the scene, over the whole nation, over Ivan's life, soul, entire _existence _like a smothering blanket had been torn apart. They took a last glance at the disturbed snow cover, stained with the remains of the firework, little craters ripped everywhere. Shards of shattered glass sparkled in the uncertain illumination from where Ivan had had the wonderful idea to stuff a firecracker into an empty bottle and then light it. Dimly, Yao wondered if he loved the other despite or for his folly.

The ghost of light-explosions still shone behind their closed eyelids when they returned to one of the large rooms, Ivan sinking down on the bed immediately after he'd taken his boots off. Yao was bothered by the smell of black powder that still hung in their clothes and hair. With his last match, he lit a stick of incense that was placed in a bowl on the nightstand, before he joined Ivan on the bed.

"Want you to stay..." Ivan murmured, the last coherent sound that would be uttered by either of them for a long while. The next morning found them with Yao's head resting on Ivan's chest, his pitch-black, now unbound hair a stark contrast against the pale skin, like spilled ink.

Outside, bottles and red paper, burnt-out rockets and spent matches disturbed the snow, like a painting of red and black slashes and curves on a sheet of white paper.


	2. Little Shadow

**A/N: **Inspired by the song "Little Shadow" by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Go check it out, it's wonderful for the more fragile side of this violent relationship.

When he rolls over and buries his face in the pillow, it's cool and soothing on his burning skin. A few seconds of complete peace, four seconds he manages to think about nothing at all. Then, a heavy arm comes to rest on his frail chest, his body is pulled against another. Couldn't Ivan just let him sleep, once? He's tired, so tired, even though the other has been "gentle" to him tonight. But that's a matter of perception – no blood has been shed this time, but he's going to feel the bruises on his shoulders and sides tomorrow. No self control. No self control at all.

A voice, deceivingly soft and laced with alcohol, interrupts his thoughts.

"Does it hurt very much?"

Oh, no, of course not! Blows to his ribs when he doesn't comply, large, blunt fingertips digging into his shoulders when he _does_, it doesn't hurt a bit. No, no, really. He's fine.

Compared to the other times, it really isn't that bad.

"Talk to me."

And always, he wants to talk. Wants to hear "It's not that bad, honestly.", with Toris tagging on the "honestly" with a sense of bitter irony. They both know he's lying, has been lying since forever, and will be lying until the whole world breaks down, should that day ever come. Until then, he's bound.

Does Ivan want to hear nothing but lies?

"I know it must hurt, I could tell from your face."

No, it doesn't seem so. Where did that come from? The words are spoken happily, without a touch of guilt. A big child who's so happy he can toss his favorite toy out of the window or into the fireplace or whatever, and it still won't break. Is he going to break? Maybe.

"You're mine, you see. My little shadow, always behind me. I'll never let go."

So...softly, such harsh words (I'm his? Always behind him?), such tender words (His little shadow? Never let go of me?). Cold and warm, bitter and sweet, pain and pleasure, the way it's always been. It's not a matter of "getting used to it", he never could. It's a matter of accepting he never will get used to it, and then making the best of it. That's his greatest skill, making the best of a situation. He won't cry, or retaliate, he'll just take what he can get. Only he doesn't know what that is.

"So sorry I hurt you...shadow."

Is he ever really sorry? Of anything? So sorry about the scars all over Toris' back? So sorry about the way his soul has been jaded? A shadow is something you take for granted. Maybe he can take him for granted, he's not going to run. He'd be lying to himself if he said fear was the only thing that kept him there.

"Mine. I'm going to leave my mark on you, shadow."

Toris almost laughs. He bites his tongue and manages not to, but it's a close call. Ivan left so many marks on him already, his body is like a map of the other man's temper. He'll never be the same, he really is a shadow, or a nightmare, a creature of dreams. Ivan has drunk too deeply of his blood, Toris has drunk too deeply of his darkness. Neither of them will ever be the same.

"Say something."

Like a plea. Not what he's used to, at any rate. But he'll do what he does best. He'll make the best of this. Toris turns around with no little difficulty, his face pressed against a broad chest that's marred by scars all over. He's not the only one who suffered. His lips are pressed against the cold/hot skin, and it's like a whisper, but he speaks.

"You make me grow, Ivan. But I don't know what I'll grow into."


	3. The Hunt

**A/N: **Warning: This one's a bit stupid.

The light filtered through the pine trees, falling on the floor in diffuse specks. The air smelled fresh and crisp, with a hint of dampness from the recent rains. Yao pushed a loose strand of hair out of his face and scanned the area. Everything was, of course, uniformly green. No flash of tell-tale beige was in sight. His delicate fingers rested on the gun in the holster at his hip, a large, double-barreled shotgun was strapped to his back. The silence was nearly unbroken, only a few animals rustling in the undergrowth. Was it possible he was being watched without noticing?

He could detect no sound of breathing save for his own, but that didn't have to mean anything. Ivan's breathing was soft and quiet, and he moved almost without sound. Scaring the living daylights out of people was something he excelled at.

A twig snapped. Yao froze, half-expecting the familiar shock of a sudden presence at his back, a voice in his ear asking if he'd called – it was an old-hat by now, but strangely intimidating in this serious situation. There was nothing. He wondered if he'd imagined the sound. His nerves were frayed. Ivan shared the blood of generations of hunters, men who'd based their existence on tracking down animals in the unforgiving Taiga. Now those keen senses were fixed on him. A soft wind had started to whisper through the trees. Maybe it had been folly to let Ivan advance on his own ground, but facing him in the desert of ice and snow of his home would have been entirely hopeless. The northern battlefield was his. It was cold here at this time of the year, but not very cold. The wind didn't cut the skin the way Russia's did. The landscape lacked the frozen, blasted look that made any heart clench in it's crystalline beauty.

A movement at the edge of his vision made him start. Ivan was picking through a clump of dense bushes some twenty meters ahead, his back turned on him. He moved noiselessly and oddly graceful despite his big, solid shape. _Like a big cat stalking his prey, _Yao thought. He smiled humorlessly. Ivan knew how to move through a forest, but he hadn't traded his signature coat for something more camouflaging. With that and his fair hair, he stood out between the trees like a beacon. Yao smoothed his hands down the front of his own deep green uniform jacket to rid them of sweat and bent to pick up a small, moss-covered rock. Ivan was still facing in the other direction. He hurled the rock to his left as hard as he could, sinking down noiselessly the moment it wasn't touching his fingers anymore. His body was curved, hidden in a ditch and half-covered by a bush. Ivan hurried to the spot the rock had fallen, all big steps and flowing movements. Yao's eyes narrowed, they were only a few meters apart now. He could see the other's nervous tension in the line of his back.

Carefully, he straightened and took aim – Ivan turned slowly, without haste. He was almost smiling, the shotgun in his gloved hand pointed at Yao. Their eyes met for a split-second.

"You called?"

Yao fired the moment Ivan's salve hit him on the shoulder. The smile froze on his face, a wet, red patch spreading on the front of his coat. Yao stood, tossing his gun away. Ivan was pouting.

"You _ruined _my _coat_." he said, wiping at the front and only succeeding in getting the red paint smudged further. Yao laughed.

"I did tell you to put on something green, aru."

They shook hands.

"Good game."

**A/N:**(The Russian and Chinese armies are currently doing military exercises together.)


	4. Adore

**A/N:** My other other favourite pairing, LitBel. Liet POV.

She's so beautiful. Delicate and fragile and bittersweet, her white fingers resting on my head as I polish her shoes until they are shining. She's half-reclining in an overstuffed red armchair, surrounded by lace, so cold and splendid. Her eyes, like dark gems, are almost closed. Her lips are red, so red. I've tasted them once and have been dying of her poison ever since. I used to be in love with her, I think. A silly thing, I was only attracted by her beauty. That's long past. I am not in love, I am addicted. She owns my body and my soul.

My head sinks down until my forehead is brushing her knee. I'm overcome. I feel a conflict within myself – am I too strong to give up my honor like this, or am I not even worthy of kneeling at her feet? I do not know. Her hand, strong as stone, tangles in my hair and pulls my head up. I've stepped over a line, can't touch her if she doesn't allow it.

I look up. She's not quite smiling, a flush of red over her porcelain cheeks.

"Stand up. You're getting my dress dirty."

I stand, ashamed at myself. She is my goddess, and she will have me know if she wants to be worshiped. She's used me like a rag before, and maybe I should hate her. But this time, I gave myself up willingly. I'm being broken, and abused, but sometimes she will grace me with a touch so soft I won't even know if I'm feeling it. When she sits at the fireplace, I sleep on the floor like a dog, her bare feet resting on my back. I eat what she leaves for me, bread and water most of the time. I do not care, I'm sated fully by her presence. If only my goddess would allow me to touch her.

She stands up, slowly. She knows where her place is – above me. Even though she is smaller than me, her poise and grace make her stand over me.

"You've been good, you know. I don't think you ever served my brother quite like that."

If only she didn't still love him. If only I wasn't still bound to him in some way.

Somehow, I find the strength to say;

"Because I never adored him like I adore you."

I shouldn't be so open. I speak without thinking, it has gotten me into trouble more than once.

"You adore me? How sweet."

Her voice is cool and smooth like glass, and the words cut just as much. My head is bowed, I know better than to look her in the eyes when she is angry.

"You know I don't love you. But I don't hate you, either." Her fingers touch my chin, lifting my head. I focus my gaze on her lips, blood-red and half open. Her teeth are white as salt and very sharp. "As I said, you have been good. You deserve a reward."

Does she mean-? Will I be allowed to touch her, this goddess, this queen? I used to be a knight, but what am I now to deserve her? I'm hers. That is enough.

"I am lonely, as are you. If you think it will please me, you may kiss me."

I can not form a word. Luckily, I'm not expected to speak. Of their own accord, my hands come to rest on her waist. She looks like a doll, but she is cruel. Cruel and beautiful like winter.

My lips press to her white neck through the lace of her collar, and travel up to meet hers.

I'm dying, but it feels sweet. I'm lost, but I could not be happier.

I adore her.

**A/N: **I've been wanting to write a story with a mistress/slave theme since forever, I was just lacking the right characters.

Done while listening to "Mine Eyes" by Switchblade Symphony.


	5. Score

When he thought about it a bit more, it was only natural for Alfred to have a shooting gallery in his basement. The young nation was downright obsessed with guns, to the point of frequently cleaning his extensive collection and practising with the rows of vaguely human-shaped targets.

Until now, Toris had always found some excuse that kept him from coming along – there'd always been some dishes to wash, or laundry to do, or even a fence to be painted. Alfred was rather notorious for littering everywhere, and didn't really mind the mounds of rubbish that tended to collect. But today, everything had been cleaned to perfection, the windows polished, the bookcases dusted, even the lawn was mowed. And he'd made more coffee already than an entire _nation _could drink. Quite literally.

So he went down with Alfred to the shooting range and slipped on a pair of earmuffs. The guns were noisy enough with this protection, and he'd probably have a massive headache by tomorrow. But wasn't it his job to humor his host? Or babysit him, really. It figured that someone who was unable to sleep alone after watching a horror movie would have the most fun shooting at humanoid figurines, bull's eyes painted on where a hit would be lethal.

Alfred planted his feet apart, took careful aim, and fired six shots right into a cardboard-made chest. Had it been an actual person, both lungs and the heart would have been ruined.

He turned and grinned at Toris, more than a little madly, blue eyes hidden behind his orange-tinted shooting glasses.

„Score!" he said triumphantly.

Score? _Score? _In this case, the correct exclamation would have been „Death!".

Toris wondered if it was something about him that attracted insane people like light attracted moths. Or maybe _he _was the moth, flying towards everyone whose madness shone out of their eyes.

„Why don't you try it?" Alfred asked, holding the gun out to him, the barrel thankfully pointed two inches above his shoulder. It was disconcerting, anyway. He accepted the weapon, somewhat hesitantly. It smelled of smoke and gun oil, the metal felt cold in his hands.

His fingers didn't quite shake when he loaded it, but when he took aim, it just felt _wrong_.

Suddenly Alfred was right behind him, startlingly close. He could feel the rise and fall of the other's chest – tide, wind, the breath of millions of people – against his back.

„You hold it with one hand, like so," he said, a thumb stroking along the back of Toris' hand,"and use the other to steady it."

He'd never noticed how long Alfred's arms were until now. The other's chin rested on his shoulder, warm breath tickling the skin of his neck. „And don't close one of your eyes, it doesn't actually help you aim."

Toris nodded, biting his lip and trying to hold the gun steady. It wasn't nearly as heavy as a sword, but he wasn't used to it. The target looked impersonal, black circles marking the head and the area over the heart. He blinked once. Taking a deep breath, he imagined fair skin, fair hair, a broad chest and burning violet eyes. Two legs to stand on, two hands to make him scream. A mouth to mock and laugh and make false promises.

He fired, three shots in the head, three others in the chest. He imagined tan fabric, white skin, red blood. It was amazing that the recoil that almost broke his hand felt so good.

He lowered th gun, breathing heavily. The imagined body became cardboard once again.

Alfred was still pressed to his back, arms wound around his waist now, mouth against his neck where his pulse throbbed.

„You're a natural." he said, voice suffused with an almost unhealthy amount of excitement. „There really is more to you than meets the eye."

Toris let his head fall back, shaking. He didn't know if he wanted to laugh, or cry, or throw up violently.

„What am I?" he asked, not really expecting an answer.

„You're earth." Alfred said, pressing himself to his back closer and harder still. „You're trees and water and people, culture and thoughts and feelings. Hundreds of years. And," he added, taking the gun from Toris' hands,"you're gorgeous."

Eyes closed, goosebumps prickling on his skin, the air thick with smoke, he let himself fall into the embrace.


	6. Bragging Rights

**A/N: **This site is in a dire need of more semi-violent Canada/Russia PWP. I'm just contributing to the cause.

Considering the fact that he's won this match almost makes up for the bruises on his stomach, his sides, his arms and pretty much every other part of his body. Canada inspects his teeth with the tip of his tongue, checking if any are loose or even missing. He hasn't, luckily, but his mouth is filled with blood nonetheless because he's bitten down on his tongue. His left arm is a bit numb, and breathing hurts, but he's won.

Russia moves closer, unsteady on his ice skates and smiling despite one blackened eye and a bruise on his cheek. He has already gotten rid of some of his protective gear and is currently removing the padding from his arms, fumbling with the straps. He closes the distance between them, still beaming, the expression incongruous next to all the injuries.

„You were quite good today," he states, tone faux-innocent,"and I could see how happy you were when you nearly broke my knee."

Russia starts for the stairs that lead out of the hockey rink, perhaps exaggerating his swaying a little, and sits down on them. Canada follows suit, none to steady either.

He makes a half-hearted attempt to sit down as well, which is quickly thwarted as Russia pulls him onto his lap. He rests his chin on Canada's shoulder, pulls one of his legs up and starts undoing the laces of his skates. They're pressed together so tightly Canada can feel a hint of heat through all the padding. He leans his head back into the other's shoulder.

„You're getting out of shape, you know." he states, fully aware of how dangerous saying something like that is. Russia's fingers stop working at the laces.

„Oh, do you think so?" he asks, wrapping his arms around Canada and compressing his injured middle in what would have been a warm embrace, hadn't it been for the bruises on his stomach.

He suppresses a pained sound when Canada gives his bruised knee a good squeeze, pressing even tighter against him.

„I win, I have bragging rights."

Canada turns around in the embrace, the movement making the pain in his stomach even worse. He lets Russia's lips meet his, the taste of the other's mouth mixing with the taste of blood in his own.

Long arms tighten around him even more. His tongue is still bleeding sluggishly, and Russia swallows. Canada brings one hand up to the other's face.

After what seems like hours, Russia breaks the kiss, smiling lazily at him.

„Enjoy your bragging rights while you can." he murmurs, eyes shining.

Canada smiles back.

„I will," he replies, one hand still squeezing Russia's knee, the other lightly stroking the bruised, sensitive skin around a bright eye, „I promise."


	7. Fallible

The first time Natalya Arlovskaya loses her innocence is when she sees her mother die. She remembers horsemen and shouting and the noise metal makes when it strikes metal. And the sounds arrows make when they split the air. She remembers a flood of rain that doesn't quite manage to wash the blood away. She remembers Katyusha, who was always blue sky and laughing and lullabies, clutching a bow in white fingers and striking down some, but not enough, of the riders. She remembers Ivan, who tries to help with his shaky almost-child hands and almost gets run through by a sword. She remembers being held by him, and his soft voice (it will always stay like that) murmur to her and try to blend the terror out.

„Hold on, Natashka. It's going to be okay, somehow."

The second time she loses her innocence is when she sees her big sister break down in tears, unable to go on. Katyusha is older than both of them, and maybe she can understand what they've lost better. But she won't eat, she won't sleep, she just cries and cries. Natalya learns her sister isn't infallible. She makes mistakes, she loses her head. And Ivan takes over.

He protects them from the weather and from enemies, he goes hunting for their food and he keeps their quarrels a manageable size. She knows he's fallible too. But he hasn't fallen yet.

The third time she loses her innocence is when Ivan finally, irrevocably falls. He's killed somebody, in cold or hot blood, she doesn't know. All she knows is he's shaking and there's something in his eyes, a fear that will never go away. He looks like slaughter, blood staining his sleeves and dripping down his hands, blood in his face and in his hair and in his mouth. Blood in the air.

As he strips off his blood-soaked clothes by the fireplace and starts to wash himself, she realizes two things. First, that the taste of blood and the foreboding of fear will always follow him from now on. And second, that his body with the half-matured lines and old and new scars is beautiful in a way she will never be able to forget.

Others will look at him and quake with fear, they'll make uncomfortable alliances and turn on him and ruin his reputation and the last bits of his sanity. And finally, when they won't have any more weapons to shoot, they'll try to bring him down with jokes and slandering.

Natalya hates them. They are everybody who try to do her brother harm. And she is the one who'd like nothing more than to be kept safe in his arms. She'd like to let him rest his head in her lap and stroke his hair until he falls asleep. She'd like to fight by his side again, she really wouldn't mind. She'd like to drink with him and dance with him. Die with him, if the day ever comes.

Mother-daughter-sister-lover-friend. She wants to be everything to him that he is to her.

If only he'd let her.

She wishes she could say „the transition from girl to woman was difficult.". But she can't even say that. She's not a woman. She's not human. Or maybe she is, a million times over. She doesn't know.

He turns and runs when he sees her. But it's only because of him that she learned to fight. He taught her everything she knows, and she knows he fears her because of it.

„I can't be with you, sister. We'd destroy each other."

She's selfish enough not to care. Let it destroy both of them!

If only he looked at her again without breaking eye contact to glance around and search for an escape route. He's fallen far enough, his head is confused enough, that his opinions fluctuate, change with uncanny speed. Sometimes he runs, sometimes he stays. But he's never stayed long enough to make her lose her innocence a fourth time. That was another's work.

Toris knows when she finally accepts (endures) him, it's because of desperation. But that's almost right, her despair and his despair mix and they try to live with each other. And for the breathtaking span of seven months, nothing compared to world history, they are one. And then she pushes him away and screams and fights and finally builds a fence of iron and barbed wire and armed guards between their lands. And sometimes she'll let him through and be sweet to him, only to turn away the next second-in-eternity. Yes-No-Yes-No-Yes-No...

The same thing her brother does to her. Like the neverending pattern of sunrise and sunset, day and night. But as much as it hurts, this pattern is the only thing she can hold on to.


	8. Ice Crystal

**A/N: **Written for a contest over at dA. The prompt was Russia/anyone and Valentine's Day. I chose Matthew for champion, because I like how dorky-cute he is. 3  
Enjoy!

There was a crisp smell in the air in February, of snow and winter, similar but still quite different to the smell at home. There was also a sweet-spicy tang, courtesy of the obligatory China-town (his lips curled upward at the phrase, but his heart sank a little bit) a few blocks away.

Others were celebrating Valentine's Day with sunshine, shorts and long walks on the beach, he supposed. But he had grown so used to cold it was almost comforting. It was only a little bit warmer here at Matthew's place, but that little bit very much mattered, in a way. It was still enough to redden his cheeks and make them sting. It truly felt like home.

There was a bit of a song on Ivan's lips as he entered a chosen store, bubbling up from where his heart might have been. He didn't know what to sing, but there was a small feeling it would have been nice if he had. Oh, well.

The lady behind the counter looked up. Then, she looked up further when she noticed her potential customer was a good two heads taller than her. She smiled in welcoming, the expression becoming shaky and then artificial as she noticed the peculiar look in those peculiar eyes that were boring into hers. Before she could utter as much as an uneasy greeting, Ivan spoke up.

„What would you buy someone who underestimates himself?" he asked, without so much as a greeting phrase. A little of the sincerity returned to the woman's smile.

„I think I have just the thing for you." she stated, starting to sift around the jewelery that crowded the counter in front of her. After a moment's pause, she lifted her head.

"_Him_self?", she asked, looking vaguely amused. Ivan merely smiled back at her, the guileless expression at odds with the haunted look in his eyes.

Several more moments spent sorting through the assorted trinkets produced the desired result.

The woman held up a small, cut-crystal heart on a silver chain. It wasn't much bigger than a fingernail, but it sparkled like ice.

"It is wonderful," Ivan decided, a gloved finger tapping against the tiny heart, making it spin, "but do you have the same, in diamond?"

With the present safely in his pocket, he started for the suburban house, a solid wood construct built to survive any snowstorm, any danger. Built to shield the fragile soul within.

Ivan inhaled and then exhaled, watching as his breath flew away in a cloud of white mist. He could _feel _himself growing mushy, a kind of happiness the same as the one that had made him want to sing. They said wounds itched as they started to heal, and his itch, his healing, was to be found behind the reinforced door in front of him.

It swung open dutifully directly after he rang the bell, and he found himself face-to-face, or rather face-to-mop-of-disheveled-blond-curls with Matthew, who was clutching a parcel in nervous fingers and sporting a sweater that reached almost down to his knees. Ivan took him by both angular elbows and steered him inside backwards, closing his mouth with a kiss and the door with a well-placed kick.

A few minutes later, after Matthew had recovered his breath somewhat, Ivan was tugging at the wrapping of his present, until the paper gave way to reveal a length of soft cotton, deep red with a hint of maroon, patterned subtly with so many snowflakes. Ivan shook it out, pensively touching his fingertips to the ever-present scarf that encircled his neck. Then he stood up and wound the red cloth around his waist two times, tying it off with a firm knot at his side.

Ivan settled back next to Matthew on the couch, and rested his head on the other's shoulder, speaking into the pale skin of his neck.

"Thank you," he murmured, one of his hands sliding through the soft hair at the back of Matthew's neck, the other fishing for his own present, "I am very happy about your gift."

The words sounded as wooden and clumsy to his ears as they felt in his mouth, but his fingers had closed on the box. And when he pulled the white diamond heart out and slipped the chain around Matthew's neck, fastening the clasp, his gentle touches said more than his words might have.

Matthew looked at the precious stone for a few seconds, seemingly dumbstruck.

"Happy Valentine's-"

Ivan was cut off as a blond head was suddenly buried in his chest and lanky arms encircled his waist. Matthew was shaking, with happiness and amazement it seemed. Ivan took him by his shoulders as carefully as he could manage, and just as carefully removed the glasses from his tear-streaked face.

"Now, don't cry, I don't want you to cry," he said, proving his words lies when he bent down to kiss the tears from Matthew's skin.

The latter looked up, a watery smile now on his face. His hands came up to curl around Ivan's arms.

"I have something else for you," he said, all reserve suddenly gone as he brought their mouths together in another kiss that grew fierce fast. Ivan tossed the glasses on the table, on top of the discarded paper, and began to fumble with the wrapping of his other Valentine's Day present, in the shape of a thick, woolen sweater, and was rewarded with a soft noise when said wrapping finally gave.

Snow began to fall outside.


End file.
